


Date Night

by Serenitey



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenitey/pseuds/Serenitey
Summary: Post-Trevor, Ian goes on a date but can’t stop thinking of Mickey because his date ordered seafood and white wine, and Mickey would have ordered a steak so rare it mooed and a beer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to review!

Fiona crept into the Gallaher house, paint flecks stained her hair and the slight whiff of BO was hanging around her. She pressed the door shut as quietly as she could manage and began to shrug off her jacket.

“You’re back late,” a voice said, cutting through the darkness.

“Jesus. Fuck, Ian!” Fiona cried, clutching at her chest. She reached out for the light switch, filling the room with light too quickly for either of their eyes to adjust. “I thought you would be out.”  
Ian was laying on the couch, his arm over his face shielding his eyes from the light. He was sprawled out, his jeans loose and riding up slowly from his socks. His tight V-neck was partially hidden by an undone, blue dress shirt.

“Didn’t you have a date?” Fiona asked. She threw her jacket over the back of the couch and hoisted Ian’s feet into the air enough that she could slip underneath them and onto the welcome softness of the worn couch. His legs rested comfortably in her lap, warm against her cold thighs. “I thought you’d have gone back to his place.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Ian responded softly. “Tired.”

Fiona frowned at him. Had Ian moved his arm, he would have seen a hint of fear in his older sister’s eyes. 

“Thought you were looking forward to this date.”

“I was.”

Fiona waited for more. She wanted him to tell her more. She stared at him. His hair was a tad longer than he usually wore it and his shirt was crumpled. Was it a new look or did he just not care? It wasn’t like Ian to not care. She wondered how long he had been on the couch. Then she wondered how long he would stay there.  
Fiona willed him to speak, to give her something - anything- without her having to pry it out of him. She knew Lip was always his first choice but he used to talk to her too. She wished he would move his arm. What would his eyes look like? Would Ian be there? Or something else?

The silence felt oppressive, the light suddenly too bright in the overstuffed living room. Fiona’s eyes flicked to the TV remote. Late night TV would have been a welcome distraction. Finally, it was too much for her. She needed more than forced muttered responses.

“What happened?”

Ian sighed and his arm fell away from his face and came to rest on his chest. He was still staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“He took me to a nice restaurant,” he started slowly.

“And that’s bad?” Fiona scoffed.

He smiled wryly at the peeling, white ceiling paint. “No.”

“So…”

“The waiter was this homophobic asshole.” 

Fiona frowned. There was always something fighting against a Gallagher. 

“And he was really good about it. Really…nice. Like he, I don’t know, was trying to kill him with kindness or some shit.” He paused.

“OK.”

“Then he didn’t eat the bread because it would spoil his dinner, said he had heard great things about the seafood marinara and was dying to try it.” His voice was bland as if he was reciting a tired, old speech. 

Fiona stared at him trying to work out why this had put Ian on the couch in the dark in the middle of the night. 

“Then he ordered a nice white wine to go with the seafood, and a sticky date pudding for dessert. He paid and he held my hand as we left and we went for a walk. Nowhere in particular or special, we just walked and he held my hand. Then he kissed me when we got back to his car and walked me to the door like a perfect gentleman. And the whole time all I could think was that it was wrong.”

“Maybe it’s the paint fumes,” Fiona said, more than a little confused, “but I don’t get it. That all sounds fucking fantastic. I’d love to date this guy!”

“Mickey would have ordered the steak,” Ian said softly, “Rare as they could grill it.”

Fiona sighed and looked at her little brother sadly. Fucking Milkovichs. 

“And he would have ordered a beer and jelllo and wouldn’t have given a fuck that it was technically on the kid’s menu.”

Fiona watched as a tear rolled down the side of Ian’s face heading for his ear. It seemed to cut a glistening path through his freckles, the trail emblazoned on his pale skin. She sighed sadly. “Oh sweetie.”

“And he sure as fuck wouldn’t have been nice to that homophobic prick or left him a tip! It was all wrong. All night that was all I could think. That this was wrong.”

Fiona was rubbing his leg soothingly. A traitorous part of her was glad. He was just sad. She could deal with sad. She could sympathise and get him ice-cream and then they could go for runs. She could offer him distractions with the apartments. Sad she could deal with. Sad she was grateful for. Sad wasn’t low.

Ian abruptly ‘hmphed’ loudly and swung his body around so he was sitting up. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and swiped angrily at his eyes. Fiona bustled closer to him, rubbing his back. 

“It’s ok to miss him,” she assured him. “I know you loved him and he loved you. It’s just gonna take time.”

Ian turned to look at her, his eyes were bloodshot. Her heart broke just a little at the sight. How long had he been crying? She imagined him sliding down the wall, great heaving sobs wracking his body while his date, unaware, happily drove away. She imagined him curled up on the couch, his fingers clutching at the old pillows, flat and in desperate need of updating.

He scoffed now. “It’s been over a year and I’m still scared every day.”

“Scared of what?”

“That I made a mistake. That I was stupid and selfish and I should have gone with him.”

Fiona froze. Her hand stilled on his back and felt heavy and numb on the end of her arm. Panic gripped her. 

“Run away with Mickey?” she questioned. She knew the answer. She didn’t need his nod of confirmation. “You’d have to have given up everything you worked for.” She said as if this was a revelation, as if it was the first time either of them had had this thought. 

“I’m pretty sure they have EMTs in Mexico, Fiona.”

“Mexico,” she repeated. “That’s where he is?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. He leant backwards. The movement forced Fiona to withdraw her hand from his back. She wasn’t touching him anymore. “And I’m here.”

“It won’t always feel like this,” she promised him. “Mickey was your first love but you’ll have another one and maybe it won’t be like it was with Mickey,” she pre-empted, “but maybe that’s not a bad thing either.”

“You mean more stable and nice.” He spat the words out as if they were an insult. “No knuckle tattoos.”

“No,’ she said calmly. “I mean that you might love him differently but not less.” She smiled encouragingly at him. His eyes were slanted towards her. At least he was looking at her now. “Look at Kev and Vee. They love each other but they loved Svetlana too. Love doesn’t always have to be what it was.”

“She stole their bar and you hate her,” Ian said bluntly.

“Ok bad example.” She laughed. “But my point is that there is someone as ‘perfect’,” she raised her eyebrows mockingly, “as Mickey Milkovich out there for you. You just have to be open to it.”

“It just hurts, Fiona,” he admitted, the words soft and chocked. “I thought it would go away or I could do other things and not think about him… and I could, I guess, for a while. But it’s just there, every fucking day and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“I know. But,” she said brightly, “Look how well you’ve been doing. You’re taking your meds, have a job that you love that is not at all illegal, and you have hot guys lining up to take you out. You have done so well,” she pressed. “If you run away to Mexico now -” Ian looked at her sharply. “-Coz fuck me if that isn’t what this whole conversation is about- if you run away to Mexico, all that is for nothing. Everything you did, everything he did, is for nothing. And Ian?” she said seriously, “If you really wanted to be in Mexico with Mickey, you would already be there.”

Ian looked at her with his tear soaked eyes and then he hung his head. He ran his hands through his hair, exhaling heavily and linking his fingers together at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah,” he said simply. Fiona nodded. She was right.

“I promise, Sweet face,” she said, curling her body awkwardly low to look up into his face. “One day, you’ll meet someone and you won’t think of Mickey and you’ll just be happy.” She looked at him imploringly with a smile on her face, so confident and assured in what she was saying was right. She knew that was how it was going to be. 

He pulled himself up and she followed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at her earnest face. She believed it. She believed that Mickey would fade away just like Jimmy had, just like Gus and Sean and all the others she believed she had loved. She loved them just like Ian had loved Mickey and they had faded into her past. Mickey would fade into Ian’s past. She was sure of it. 

“I should go to bed,” he said finally. “I have a shift tomorrow. Been picking up extras. Trying to save up for a car.”

“Yeah,” Fiona said encouragingly, “Good night’s rest will put it all into perspective. Make you feel better.”

She watched him stand and slowly climb the stairs. She listened as the pipes rattled while he brushed his teeth and the toilet flushed. She listened as the door closed softy and watched as the upstairs light disappeared from the stairs.

“Sad,” she thought to herself. She eased herself back onto the couch and tucked her legs beneath her. Sad she could handle. Sad would pass. She just had to show him. It would be easy. She’d survived it. She was better now in so many ways and he would be too.

Upstairs, Ian stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. He was wearing an olive t-shirt, the sleeves sheared off. It was too short for him and too tight across his chest and it didn’t smell like Mickey anymore. It just smelt like Ian.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to review!


End file.
